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My physiotherapist told me that there is not much medical science can do for me. I just have to stay off that foot until it heals on its own.

Any moms out there laughing with me? My hubby has been very considerate. Just the other day, he told one of our girls to go help me make supper. She came, very reluctantly, and asked what she should do. I asked her to stir the hamburger. She asked if she could have a snack first. So I stirred the meat. I asked if she could open a can. She did. Then I asked her to shred some cheese. She said she doesn’t like to grate cheese. I said that I thought she always liked to grate cheese. She said, no, that her sister is the one who likes to grate cheese. She went to find her sister. Little sister refused to come. She said, “No – Daddy told you to help with supper.”

At this point, I played the broken foot card. My fifteen- year- old went off on a hissy fit. “It’s always about you! You’ve got a broken foot, you have Parkinson’s. It’s never about me. Well I went to school all day and I’m tired.”

Poor child! (She really is a great kid, and I love her dearly, but she does throw hissy fits!).

Yesterday I went to the kitchen at 6:30 to start breakfast. I got the coffee going, made juice, and oatmeal. Then my Parkinson’s went dystonic. (This is the phase where my muscles cramp up and curl inward.) I crawled (literally) back to the bedroom and climbed back into bed. I woke up hubby and asked him to get the kids up, and could he please bring me a bowl of oatmeal. He launches into a tirade that I have heard many, many times. “Why don’t you just stay where you are when you go dystonic?You don’t need to get back to the bedroom. That’s how you broke your foot in the first place.”

Before you start to feel too sorry for me, I have to admit that my family isn’t completely heartless. Just this morning, Hubby brought me a laptop computer (borrowed, but still very thoughtful), so I don’t have to go to the basement to use the computer and then back upstairs to use the bathroom and refill my coffee cup (an endless daily cycle). And I must concede that having a decrepit mom isn’t much fun. I can’t drive them anywhere (had to surrender my driver’s license two years ago), and my girls do have more chores to do than most of their friends.

Oh well… life is what it is.